Could I Really Move to Mexico? A Bilingual Mom’s Thoughts on Life South of the Border

I’ve never been to Mexico. Not once. Well…I mean, I went to Cancun once with my parents about 20 years ago, but does that really count? Every now and then though, the thought crosses my mind: What if we just packed up and moved to Mexico? Not in a dramatic, “sell everything and start over” way (though, let’s be honest, that does sound kind of appealing some days…honestly moreso each day), but more of a “What if we really did it?” kind of way. I find myself daydreaming about packing up my life, scooping up my kids, and heading south for a fresh start. A slower life. A life where I finally get the work-life balance I keep promising myself—except this time, with better tacos. Maybe it’s the endless TikToks of people who have “escaped” the U.S. and now spend their days drinking fresh-squeezed juice in open-air markets while their kids run barefoot through cobblestone streets. Of course, there’s just one tiny detail: I have no idea what I’m doing.

In my defense, it’s not a completely random thought. My husband is Mexican, he spent his entire childhood there, and he has family there. Meanwhile, I teach Spanish, speak it every day, and live in this bilingual world where Mexico feels both super familiar and yet just out of reach.

The Dream vs. The Reality

In my mind, moving to Mexico looks something like this: I wake up to the sound of tropical birds (or maybe roosters—I’m flexible), sip my café de olla on a breezy, sun-drenched patio, and take a leisurely stroll to the market where I chat with the local abuelitas about the best way to make tamales. My kids? They’re effortlessly bilingual, playing fútbol in the streets, and embracing a childhood that doesn’t revolve around screens and standardized tests. Meanwhile, I’ve completely stopped stress-scrolling, my Spanish is absolutely flawless, and I’ve become the kind of person who always remembers to bring reusable bags to the store. This is the dream.

But then there’s the reality. My practical side kicks in. The real reality of moving abroad isn’t just sunshine and tamales. It’s paperwork, logistics, figuring out schools, healthcare, work permits—the whole adulting part that doesn’t fit neatly into my romanticized vision of life south of the border. Would the kids adjust? Would I? And while I do speak Spanish, there’s a big difference between the classroom and homelife Spanish that I use everyday and “navigating real-life bureaucracy in another country” Spanish. Plus, I’m a mom of three, a teacher, a business-owner, and a fully functioning adult (on most days). Uprooting our lives isn’t something I can just do on a whim, no matter how tempting the idea of fresh churros on every corner might be.

The Kids: Excited or Traumatized?

Sure, in my head, my kiddos are thriving in their new life, soaking up the language, culture, and endless sunshine. But in reality? They’d probably spend the first six months (or more!) dramatically flopped on the couch, wailing about missing their friends, their favorite fast-food places, and (of course) reliable Wi-Fi. Am I prepared to be the villain in their coming-of-age story? The evil mother who ripped them from everything they know and forced them to live in a place where they can’t DoorDash chicken nuggets at 10 p.m.?

My Husband’s Perspective

For my husband, Mexico is home. It’s the place he grew up, where his family still lives, where food tastes right because it’s made with the ingredients and techniques he knows and has longed for for ages. For him, moving back isn’t just an idea—it’s a real possibility, and deep down…a real desire. And honestly? There’s something beautiful about raising our kids in a place that’s another part of their heritage. I want his family to be a constant in our family – a luxury we’ve never been able to have.

But as much as we talk about it, we always come back to the same question: Would it really work?

So, Could I Actually Do It?

I don’t have an answer—yet. For now, I’m content with the daydreams, the mental vacations, and the endless “what ifs.” But who knows? Maybe one day soon, I’ll be writing this blog from a little house in Guanajuato or San Cristobal de las Casas, sipping my café de olla, watching my kids play in the plaza like they’ve lived there forever.

Or maybe I’ll be stuck in a glorieta, white-knuckling the steering wheel, regretting everything while my kids whine endlessly about missing Chick-fil-A. Either way, it’d make a great story, I guess.